


Tie Yourself to Me

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Double, Detroit Tigers, Gen, Mental Breakdown, Minor Violence, Mirrors, Mirrors and Doubles, Psychosis, Subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-20
Updated: 2011-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It starts as an itch under his skin that he can’t scratch away.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tie Yourself to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the second round of and [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/bats_and_balls/20176.html). Hideously AU and no, I have not seen _Black Swan_. Also, I listened to a lot of PJ Harvey. 
> 
> Thanks to [**inplayruns**](http://inplayruns.livejournal.com/), [**unreckless**](http://unreckless.livejournal.com/) and [**emeh**](http://emeh.livejournal.com/) for listening to me whine. Thanks to [**aurealis**](http://aurealis.livejournal.com/) for her Spanish assistance! 
> 
> Fits the **possession -** [](http://angst_bingo.livejournal.com/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://angst_bingo.livejournal.com/) square.
> 
> Title from “Rid of Me,” by PJ Harvey.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

Tie yourself to me  
No one else  
— “Rid of Me,” PJ Harvey 

It starts as an itch under his skin that he can’t scratch away. The team doctor diagnoses it as a rash, probably due to some random allergy though he can’t pinpoint its origins for sure, and prescribes him some ointment. Take this ointment, rub it on your skin and get back to me in a week. Simple enough.

It doesn’t help, though. If anything, it gets worse, whatever it is. He can feel it - the itch, the rash, _whatever_ \- crawling under his skin and nothing helps. Not the ointment given to him by the doctor, not scratching at his skin until he draws blood.

Bad enough he’s not hitting anymore, but this? This is torture. He must have seriously pissed off some higher power along the way.

“Maybe it’s an STD,” Inge jokes, and Brennan resists hauling off and punching him because a.) he’s a pacifist and b.) the second half of his season’s already going poorly enough. He doesn’t need to get suspended for beating up annoying teammates because he can’t handle whatever’s happening to him.

He starts peeling at the medical tape around his left wrist for lack of anything else to do with his hands that don’t involve Inge’s obnoxious grinning face. “Ha ha, real funny.”

“Just tryin’ to help,” Inge says, grinning some more.

Brennan focuses on the tape around his wrist and starts scratching at it. The sticky stuff gets on his fingers and he starts rubbing it off. “It’s fine.”

“Okay, man. Whatever you say.” Inge clips him on the shoulder and wanders off.

Brennan glances up and catches his reflection in the tiny mirror in Miguel Cabrera’s locker across the room. He’s got dark circles ringing his eyes and his color is pale, sallow. He looks like somebody ran him over with their car a few times and then backed over him for good measure.

A large, dark shadow falls over him and Brennan glances up, pasting a smile on his face, expecting to see Cabrera. “Hey, man, I -”

Brennan stops himself short. No one’s there. Not even the shadow he could’ve sworn was there just a few seconds before. Brennan glances around the clubhouse quickly; guys are milling about, chatting amongst themselves, conducting interviews with reporters and beat writers, or helping themselves to the post-game spread in the trainer’s room. Nothing’s out of the ordinary and yet everything feels _wrong_.

Brennan pushes himself to his feet wearily. It’s been a terrible second half to his rookie season and now he’s cracking up. Excellent.

He rips the tape off his wrist in one quick motion and balls it up in his hand. His wrist is red and raw underneath, and the itch is still there under his skin.

The fingers of his other hand twitch; he wants to scratch so badly. He doesn’t, though. He forces his hands to the buttons on his jersey instead.

-

Another loss. Another oh-fer.

Brennan slams a fist against the frame of his locker and sends a plastic bottle of Excedrin flying off the shelf. It rolls to a stop at the feet of Cabrera, who stoops down and picks it up, rattles it by his ear and smiles.

Brennan feels himself smiling back even though he’s still pissed off about his performance.

“Hey, man.” He walks over to Cabrera and holds his hand out for the pills. “Friendly fire.”

Cabrera tucks the bottle of Excedrin in his hand. “ _¿Cómo te sientes?_ ”

“ _Estoy bien_ ,” Brennan says, shoving the pills into his pocket. “Headaches.” He points to his temple. “ _Migrañas_.”

Cabrera nods and makes a sympathetic noise. “ _¿Debes ir al doctor?_ ”

“ _Voy a estar bien_ ,” Brennan says, giving Cabrera a big, reassuring smile he isn’t feeling. “I’ll be fine.”

“All right,” Cabrera says, smiling back and patting Brennan on the shoulder before lumbering over to his own locker.

Brennan watches after him. His wrist starts itching again and he scratches at it even though he knows he won’t get any relief.

-

Brennan clambers out of the shower and swipes at the fogged up mirror with the heel of his hand. The dampness from the shower clings to his skin heavily.

There’s a flurry of movement just beyond his shoulder and Brennan whirls around, feet slipping on the bathroom tile, but there’s no one there.

He feels something brush up against him, lightly, and he spins back around, grabbing onto the edge of the bathroom counter.

Brennan half expects to see someone else’s face in the mirror when he turns back around, but it’s just his reflection.

“I’m losing my mind. I’m losing my mind and I’m talking to my reflection,” he says, turning on the sink and running his hands under the cool water.

There’s the sound of knocking and he looks up.

His reflection is rapping its knuckles against the mirror. It rattles against the wall.

“Hey there.”

Brennan knows he’s the only one there and he’s obviously imagining things because he’s fucking losing his mind, but he still looks over his shoulder to see if someone’s in the bathroom anyway.

“No, in here.”

His eyes drift back to the mirror.

His reflection smirks at him. “Thought you’d never notice me. I’ve been trying to get your attention.”

The world swerves around overhead and the lights suddenly seem too bright. Brennan thinks he’s going to pass out. He clutches on the bathroom counter so hard he thinks his knuckles will explode.

“Stop it,” he hears his voice say. Something sounds off, though; it’s harsher than usual. “I’m here to help you.”

Brennan forces himself to focus on the face in the mirror, the fact that belongs to him. “What? How?”

He - it leans in closer. “Let me out of here and we’ll tear this city apart.”

“This is insane. I’m talking to myself.” Brennan closes his eyes and counts to ten before opening them. His reflection is staring at him intently, a hand pressed against the mirror.

“I’m inside of you. Let me out and I’ll help you.”

“Help me with what?” Brennan rubs his hands over his face and shakes his head; he’s having a conversation with his mirror. He’s really gone over the edge.

“You’re drowning,” his reflection says, tone softening.

“I’m not. I’m having a shit second half and whatever, but I’m not drowning,” Brennan grumbles.

His reflection laughs at him. “Let me out, Brennan.”

“How?”

His reflection rattles the mirror with its fist. “Break the mirror.”

“But won’t that bring bad luck?” Brennan asks.

“I’ll keep the bad luck away,” the voice promises. “Now, let me out.”

Brennan looks down. He knots his hand into a tightly coiled fist and pulls his arm back. The air feels electric and something unfamiliar - _exciting_ \- tingles down his spine.

His knuckles connect with the mirror, shattering it into a million pieces.

Nothing happens. No one climbs out of the wreckage like he’d been expecting. The only thing he’s got are bloody knuckles and a busted mirror.

“Fucking idiot,” he whispers, shaking his head. He doesn’t know why he’s even whispering, anyway, considering he’s the only one there.

Brennan opens one of the drawers and digs out some peroxide and gauze to wrap his knuckles. The cut doesn’t seem too deep, thank goodness. It would be just his luck to end up on the disabled list for attacking his mirror.

Brennan wraps gauze around his hand and tapes it up, and then inspects the rash on his wrist but it’s gone. Good riddance, he thinks. He drops the roll of tape and gauze back in the drawer and shuts it.

-

The trainer asks after his busted knuckles the second he steps foot into the clubhouse and Brennan bullshits him about falling out of a cab and scraping his hand on the sidewalk. He’s pretty sure the guy doesn’t buy the story, but he doesn’t pry. He gives Brennan a couple tablets of Tylenol, a little plastic bottle of peroxide, some fresh bandages for the wound, and sends him on his way.

Brennan peels the gauze away from his hand and inspects the cuts on his knuckles before treating them with peroxide and re-wrapping them.

“What’d you do to your hand?” One of Brennan’s teammates leans against his locker and gestures to his injured hand.

“Fell getting out of a cab and scraped it on the sidewalk,” Brennan lies effortlessly. “It’ll be fine though. As long as I can get my glove on.” He plucks his mitt out of his locker and slides it over his hand. The cuts sting, but they’re nothing that’ll keep him out of the lineup.

The teammate snuffs skeptically and wanders off. He doesn’t look up to see who it is.

Brennan slips the glove off and flexes his hand. One of the cuts reopens and it burns, but it’s a pleasant burn.

When he curls his hand into a fist just so, he can _feel_ it.

-

They lose the game and it’s pretty much all his fault. They walk Cabrera to get to him - something a lot of teams have been doing lately - and he doesn’t come through. He swings through fastballs he was clobbering just a couple months ago, gets jammed by cutters that make his hands sting (and not in a good way), grounds into double plays he should be able to beat out.

Brennan drops his cell phone on the coffee table in the living room, next to a stack of unopened mail, and trudges down the hall to his bedroom to change his clothes.

He hears something then, a faint whisper of noise, and his wrist starts itching again. Brennan scratches idly at it and pushes his bedroom door open.

“Oh, there you are. I’ve been waiting for you.” Two hands close in the front of Brennan’s shirt and tug him into the room, nearly jerking him off his feet.

“What? Who the hell -” Brennan struggles, but the hands - and the person they belong to - are strong and they push him into the armchair next to his dresser.

The stranger steps back. Brennan stares into his own eyes, stares at his own face.

“What took you so long? I thought you’d be back earlier,” the man with his face says, eyes flashing. His hair is a little darker than Brennan’s and his eyes are a shade lighter, but the features are unmistakable.

“Who are you,” Brennan asks, digging his fingers into the armrests.

The stranger with his face laughs and crosses his arms over his chest. “You really have no idea, do you?”

Brennan realizes this person, whoever he is, is wearing his clothes. The closet doors are open and various items of clothing are strewn about haphazardly.

“I’ll call the cops,” Brennan threatens, but it’s an empty threat. He left his cell phone on the coffee table, with the mail.

“You won’t call the cops. You left your cell phone in the living room,” his doppelgänger says, smiling triumphantly.

“Just tell me who you are,” Brennan all but begs.

“I’m you.” He tilts his head, thoughtful. “Well, not quite. But close enough.”

Brennan shakes his head and throws up his hands, jumping out of the armchair. “Get out.”

“You’re not calling the shots anymore. You let me out.” He puts a hand on Brennan’s chest and pushes him back down, into the chair.

“What?”

His doppelgänger reaches down, grabbing onto Brennan’s bandaged hand, squeezing until Brennan cries out in pain. “You let me out.”

“I don’t understand,” Brennan says, twisting his hand out of the guy’s grip.

“Of course you wouldn’t.” He steps back and shoves his hands into his pockets. “You like to think I don’t exist, you like to pretend because it’s easier for you that way, I guess. But I’ve always been here, Brennan. And you let me out.”

Brennan curls his injured hand to his chest. “The mirror?”

His double nods, borrowed mouth twitching in a smirk. “Yes.” He extends a hand to Brennan. “Take my hand.”

Brennan reaches out, tentatively, and wraps his fingers around his hand. “Now what?”

“Come with me.”

-

Brennan slowly unwinds the bandage from his hand and examines the cuts. They’re starting to heal and he has to admit to himself he’s a little disappointed. He’s not sure what he was hoping for, exactly, but the disappointment rolls in his gut and makes him feel sick to his stomach.

A hand settles over his shoulder and he feels warm breath against the side of his neck. “It’s okay. You’ll have some pretty scars. They make for a good story.”

Brennan goes still at the sound of his own voice - a bit huskier and rougher around the edges but unmistakably his - in his ear.

“What kind of story are they gonna tell?” he asks, turning slowly, facing his doppelgänger.

“That’s for you to figure out.” He wraps his hand around Brennan’s wrist roughly and lifts it, examining the cuts on his knuckles.

Brennan lets him hold onto his wrist. “Why’d you come here anyway?”

He lets go of Brennan’s wrist to fiddle with the sink fixtures and runs his own hands under the water. “I came because you needed me.” He splashes water in his face and lowers his hands. Brennan can feel the hint of moisture on his own face.

“How are you gonna help me,” Brennan asks. He curls his fingers around the handle of an imaginary bat and takes a cut, examining himself in what’s left of his bathroom mirror. His reflection is distorted, wavers.

Brennan feels ghostly fingers slip into his hair and he drops his arms, tensing up. A familiar jolt of electricity tingles down his spine.

“You’re thinking too much,” his doppelgänger says, slipping behind Brennan and sliding his fingers around his wrists. He trails his fingers lower, lower until his hands cover Brennan’s. “Close your eyes.”

Brennan can feel his breath on the back of his neck. “Why,” he asks, even as he does what he’s told.

“Let your instincts take over.”

Brennan feels strong hands tighten around his wrists - he feels solider and stronger behind him now - and guiding his swing. The hands let go of his wrists and slip away, slide over his shoulders as he takes another cut.

“That’s better,” the voice says. “Do it again.”

Brennan does as he’s told and takes another swing. And another. And another. And another. Until he’s so sore he can barely lift his arms and he can feel beads of sweat trickling down his back, between his shoulder blades.

“My swing hasn’t felt this good since - since May,” Brennan says, tugging his t-shirt off by the collar and wiping the sweat off his forehead with it. “I feel good.”

Brennan feels his doppelgänger’s breath on the back of his neck, cool little bursts of air that make him shiver and raise goosebumps. “I was right.”

“About what?” Brennan asks, closing his eyes again.

“You need me.” A hand slides over Brennan’s throat, tips his chin up. “Open your eyes.”

Brennan does. “What am I supposed to be seeing,” he asks. He sees their faces - his face staring multiplied hundreds, thousands of times at him from the broken shards of mirror.

The hand on his neck presses down a bit and Brennan goes quiet and still. He wonders if he said the wrong thing, if he gave the wrong answer.

“We’re two halves of the same whole,” his doppelgänger whispers, hand still around his neck. “Before, you were incomplete. But I’m here and we’re perfect now.”

Brennan struggles to swallow against the pressure around his throat. “I - I understand.”

He turns his head, eyes still on their reflection in the bits of broken mirror, and murmurs against Brennan’s mouth. “You’ll never get rid of me.”

__

No, you're not rid of me  
— “Rid of Me,” PJ Harvey

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
